


a deliberate love

by slashy (slashmyheartandhopetoporn)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Series, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7632694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Will a little time to accept a few truths about how he feels for Hannibal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a deliberate love

**Author's Note:**

> SO, this fic used to be a little different. i originally planned a three chapter story, and then never could finish and post chapter two. so, after much hemming and hawing and crying, i decided to majorly restructure things and make this a one chapter longer fic to finally just be DONE WITH IT. so, i revised it, completed it, and changed the name. as you read, therefore, the first half may feel familiar. but don't stop there! it's now a completed story with a very different last half.
> 
> thanks for bearing with the sillyness of this fic writing process. thanks for reading!

They’ve been in town for three months when Hannibal decides it’s time to start slaughtering again. He doesn’t declare it to Will, grandly and with great fanfare, but there’s a look in his eye that Will identifies immediately. They’re at the farmers’ market on some overcast Wednesday morning--all the mornings here are overcast, the curse of the coastal town--when some obnoxious white man with dreads jostles harshly into Will, his elbow knocking the spot on Will’s chest still tender from where Dolarhyde planted his knife.

The man doesn’t excuse himself or apologize, doesn’t say anything at all. He just zeroes in on the stall selling overpriced jalapeno jam that Will _knows_ was driven over two hours to get here. _Local_ Will’s ass. He turns to look at Hannibal, rubbing the raised scar through his shirt, gently, and that’s when he catches the glint. There’s a considering look in Hannibal’s gaze, a tenseness to his lips. Will looks back at the dread-headed man and thinks: _Looks like your number is up_.

He doesn’t ask Hannibal to reconsider. He doesn’t offer him a quietly disapproving look. He only takes Hannibal’s hand in his own and murmurs, “Come on.” Hannibal lets himself be taken to another corner of the public square, away from his next target, but it’s only because they both know Will isn’t trying to dissuade. It’s a small town; they’ve seen the man before and they will see him again. Nothing has to happen immediately, and they were having such a nice time.

Attending the farmers’ market every weekend has proven to be one of Will’s favorite activities in their new life. He likes making his way around the stalls, Hannibal either just to his side or trailing behind to banter with one of the sellers. He likes the music that blares from the center of the square, and watching the children yell and laugh as they weave through the crowds ahead of their parents. He likes the routine of walking the market with a cup of coffee from one of the local cafes, Hannibal stealing sips of Will’s after his has already been drunk, and stopping in at the small bookshop on the corner on their way back to the car.

Will likes where they’ve ended up generally speaking, though Hannibal’s feelings on the place remain harder to discern. He tells Will he’s happy, that he enjoys being tucked into the redwoods and buffered by the Pacific, but Will knows Hannibal lacks many of his preferred accoutrements so far away from any bustling city. The food is lovely, the weather mild, and the house they’ve found is some beautiful modern space surrounded by trees and wildlife, and all Will has to do to see something perfect and pure is look out his window when he wakes first thing in the morning. There’s a yard for the two dogs he’s rescued, and Hannibal’s already once mentioned the possibility of chickens. But there is no proper tailor within 200 miles, and the art galleries are sparse and poorly curated. The smallness of the town means Hannibal hasn’t felt comfortable doing what he does best, and the people are too friendly and too curious besides. Hannibal sticks out like a sore thumb regardless of what he does, so he certainly doesn’t do the one thing that would be sure to bring him even further attention. Until now.

“Will you take him to the cabin?” Will asks after they’ve returned home.

“You know I will,” Hannibal agrees. “It’s only right it be christened.”

The cabin had been bought within weeks of the house. When Hannibal had brought Will there for the first time, Will had only twisted his lips into a caricature of a smile and said, “How very Garrett Jacob Hobbs of you.”

“I can’t very well do my work in the house,” Hannibal had replied. He had sounded so very reasonable.

Now it seemed the cabin would have its first victim. _It was only a matter of time_ , Will reminds himself.

It isn’t that Will is bothered by Hannibal’s need to murder, and he certainly isn’t bothered that Hannibal’s need seems predicated almost solely on Will. It’s just that Hannibal returning to his traditional ways marks the end of their safety window. Certainly they had not been entirely _safe_ before, but they had been _safer_. The only risk before had been recognition, and considering they were presumed dead by the FBI and had relocated to the opposite side of the country and moved out to the middle of nowhere, that threat had been unlikely.

Now Hannibal was reopening the can of worms he and Will had summarily shut those few months prior, and while it had always been a given this would happen, Will can’t pretend he isn’t the least bit disappointed.

That night over dinner, a fish Will had caught dressed up with Hannibal’s usual artistry, Will sips his wine and considers Hannibal over the table.

“Something to say, Will?”

Will chooses his words carefully. “I appreciate that you are you going to do what you are going to do,” he says. “And I wouldn't ask you to do anything else. I would ask only that you take into account everything we've built here.”

“You're concerned I will be careless.”

“I like our life here.”

“And if I don’t? What if I find it lacking?” Hannibal says the words casually, and Will feels a twinge of unease that ceased being entirely foreign weeks ago. If he’s being honest with himself, Will’s been concerned for Hannibal’s happiness since they first emerged from the water. That his needs are different than Will’s has been obvious since they first met.

But despite Will’s low-grade anxiety over Hannibal’s emotional and psychological well being, life with Hannibal has been simple and surprisingly easy. It’s strange, of course, to be so open with their affection, even if they appear chaste and prudish to outside observers. The pretense of their relationship is gone, and that changes everything for Will. Hannibal loves him--has said so more than once--and Will loves him--though he has yet to say so himself. At least, he presumes this is love. What else is it called, this need? What other term applies to his obsession? Will has long since realized there is very little he won't do for Hannibal, and if that isn’t love then he doesn't know what is.

Of course, his love for Molly and Alana had been different. Less consuming. More stable. But lately Will feels that begs the question: had he ever truly loved them to start?

 

-

 

It’s another week before Hannibal makes his move. He doesn't announce, _Today’s the day_ , but he kisses Will on the cheek early that morning before heading into town. Will’s not even out of bed, still half asleep when Hannibal gently sits beside him and bends to kiss him softly.

“I brought you coffee, and I fed the dogs,” he whispers into Will’s ear, and Will simply knows: _Today’s the day._

Hannibal stands from the bed, but before he’s out of reach, Will grabs his hand and tugs him back. Hannibal tumbles downward, smiling a little in surprise. Will sits up and takes a sip of coffee to cover the worst of his breath, then he draws Hannibal’s mouth to his own for a modest kiss.

“Be safe,” he says quietly, pressing his forehead to Hannibal’s.

“Do you doubt me?” Hannibal asks, genuinely curious.

“I don't,” Will says, shaking his head. “I just care.”

Hannibal presses another brief kiss to Will’s mouth. He stands from the bed and steps away, this time unimpeded. As he reaches the bedroom door, Will can’t keep himself from calling out.

“And Hannibal,” he says. “Have fun.”

Hannibal winks, and then he’s gone.

 

-

 

Will spends the day keeping himself busy. He takes the dogs for a hike, which occupies most of the morning. Whiskey, a red shepherd mix, and Zin, a wiry yellow lab mix, were found roaming the streets together about two weeks after Will and Hannibal had arrived, and Will had had only a little trouble coaxing them to him and then into his car. Whiskey reminds Will of Winston when he spies her at just the right angle, though her excitability and penchant for barking means her similarity to Winston ends there. Zin, on the other hand, barely makes a sound, which is probably why he’s Hannibal’s favorite. Dog hair on the couch be damned.

The hike is a nice distraction. Will has yet to grow tired of the redwoods, and the occasional peek at the ocean between the branches never fails to make him feel a small thrill. He likes being this close to the water, the way it hangs in the air. A threat, and a promise. He doesn’t mind the lack of sun, he doesn’t mind the perpetual sixty degree days. He hopes this is a place they can stay. He doesn’t want to be afraid of calling this town _home_.

When he returns to town after the hike, he has lunch at a creperie not even Hannibal has been able to find much fault in, Whiskey and Zin catching scraps of tomato and ham as they fall under the patio table. If Will drops a few bits and pieces on purpose, then that’s between him and the dogs. He sits for a while and people-watches, and can’t help but think of Hannibal. His thoughts drift readily to the other man, wondering where he might be. What he might be doing. Will figures Hannibal’s at the cabin by now, but he doesn’t let himself think further than that. Will may see the beauty in death, understand the joy of bringing it, but not every expression of that power makes him giddy as it does Hannibal.

Will spends the rest of the afternoon tackling odd jobs around the house. The herb garden needs trimming; the bathtub needs cleaning; the dog beds need washing. He ends the afternoon with a pint of pale ale and a run down of their finances. Hannibal had squirreled away millions between his family inheritance and his psychiatric practice, enough to live on comfortably if one was careful. But while Will could make such a budget work until the day they died, they both know Hannibal requires a bit more extravagance. Not to mention, a considerable portion of Hannibal’s money went towards the creation of their new identities as Eliot and Anders Jacobs, both the house and the cabin, and each of their cars. Will looks at the numbers and sighs. They’re in no danger, but looking for work soon is in their best interest if they’re serious about long-term comfort for each of them.

Dinner is a simple affair of leftover fish and a green salad. Will doesn’t bother with wine, as he knows he’ll be drinking a few fingers of scotch later. He continues to avoid thinking of Hannibal, ignoring the fact that the very act of consciously _not_ thinking of Hannibal means he is, in a sense, _still_ thinking of Hannibal. Will doesn’t know why he’s so worried, doesn’t understand the gnawing anxiety. His anxiety is so strong that he doesn’t even bother finishing his meal, skipping straight to the scotch. It’s unwise, but it’s the only thing settling his nerves. He flips on the TV for background noise, and makes a concerted effort not to keep his eyes on the front door.

When Will finally hears Hannibal’s key click into the first lock around one AM he almost collapses with relief. He stands from his seat, staring expectantly, and terribly curious what he might see. Hannibal’s entrance is thus anti-climactic.

He looks normal. Comfortable. His clothes are clean, his face is calm, and when his eyes land on Will there is the faintest of smirks dancing on his lips.

“Honey,” he says. “I’m home.”

He and Will walk towards one another, meeting in the middle.

“I missed you,” Will says, and it’s true.

“I missed you, too.”

They stand and stare at one another, Hannibal still wearing a small grin, Will’s expression tense for reasons he finds he can’t quite name. He looks at Hannibal, who looks impeccable himself, and marvels. There is really nothing changed. It’s only then Will realizes he expected something would.

Will swallows and takes another step closer to Hannibal. “Did you have fun?” he asks.

Hannibal’s smile turns fond. “I always do what you tell me to do.”

“That’s a pretty little lie,” Will says. And then he notices it: the smallest smear of blood just below Hannibal’s cheek bone. Will’s breath catches.

“You missed a spot,” he says softly. He extends a hand slowly, using his thumb to wipe away the red. “This yours or his?”

Hannibal shrugs. “I suspect his, though I admit he got one good scratch in before I could subdue him.”

Will’s brows raise. “ _He_ got the jump on _you_?”

“I didn’t say that,” Hannibal counters. “Besides, I am out of practice.”

Will snorts. “I imagine you’ll be rectifying that soon.”

Hannibal sighs. “Maybe, maybe not. It has been requested I practice more discretion with my hobby. There is some concern I may compromise the current living arrangement, which apparently this person is rather fond of.”

“And you’re not?”

“I am fond of what he is fond of.”

Will’s voice is thicker than he expects when he says, “You old sap.”

He considers the blood on his thumb to avoid holding eye contact with Hannibal while his own gaze betrays the depth of Will’s emotion. The blood is almost dry, he notices, but not quite. Hannibal watches Will curiously, and Will doesn’t really plan to do it, it just sort of happens: he lifts his thumb to his mouth, focuses his eyes on Hannibal once more, and then slips the thumb between his lips. The flavor blossoms on his tongue, sharp and heavy and bitter. He removes his thumb from his mouth.

“This doesn’t taste like you,” he whispers.

Something in Hannibal’s gaze darkens. Will expects the kiss, anticipates the tongue Hannibal presses into him. He wraps his arms around Hannibal’s waist and relaxes against him. He thinks to himself,

_Thisislovethisislovethisislove._

When he pulls back from Hannibal, he’s flushed and breathless. Hannibal drops a kiss to his forehead.

“I’m having a shower,” he says, “And then we are going to bed.”

Will nods.

 

-

 

The next day, Hannibal heads back to the cabin to finish his work. Will decides to go with him, and they pack the dogs up in Will’s Subaru with some provisions for the day and start the forty five minute drive into the forest. It’s a beautiful drive that Will wishes he’d make a bit more often, and that Hannibal sits in the passenger seat with his hand on Will’s thigh for the bulk of the trip doesn't hurt either. He listens to Hannibal murmur nonsense to the dogs in the backseat and does his best to hide his smile.

Will loves the cabin. Everything about it. Their house is beautiful and sprawling, remote enough to satisfy, but the cabin still has Will’s heart more. It's smaller, and warmer in color and mood, and Will can't help but feel immediately at home each time he spies it through the trees as they make their way up the long driveway. It also boasts enough modern updates to keep Hannibal happily comfortable while maintaining the rustic charm Will’s come to adore. The addition of certain supplies and appliances to facilitate Hannibal’s unique hobby are also present, but tucked out of sight in the room Hannibal has claimed for his workspace.

When they arrive, Will finds the place is already spotless. If he didn’t know Hannibal had butchered a body here, he never would have guessed. Hannibal had been fastidious in his clean up, even when it meant not returning to Will until late in the evening, and Will appreciates that; he’d rather have Hannibal late than arrested.

“Where is he?” Will asks after he lets the dogs out into the backyard.

Hannibal jerks his chin towards the workroom. “What’s left of it is in there. I haven’t done much with the meat yet.”

Will nods. He knows Hannibal’s priority the previous night would have been cleaning his workspace and making himself presentable for travel.

“That’s what today’s for, I imagine.”

Hannibal smiles. “Indeed.”

Will lets Hannibal return to his work, digging a book out of his bag and making his way to the backyard. It’s a bit warmer at the cabin, given it’s more inland than the house, and Will sequesters himself on a patio chair plush with soft cushion. He watches Whiskey and Zin sniff around the yard and nip at each others haunches for a while, and then focuses on his book. That Hannibal is inside, skinning and cleaning and draining a corpse, hardly registers. It’s too damn nice outside to think about much else.

The day is thus passed in a peaceful haze. At lunch time, Will prepares a few sandwiches for himself and Hannibal, knocking on the workroom door to get Hannibal’s attention. A moment later, the door swings open, a burst of cool air hitting Will like a breeze. Over Hannibal’s shoulder, Will can see what he’s been busy with.

“Come out for a bit,” Will says. “You could use a break, and I made lunch.”

“I’m much obliged,” Hannibal replies. He slips out of his clear plastic overcoat and hangs it on the rack by the door. “Thank you, Will.”

After hands have been washed and the dogs have been placated with leftover chicken salad, Hannibal and Will take their meals outside to take advantage of the brief appearance of proper sunshine and true-blue skies. The eat in comfortable silence, sipping lemonade Will brought from the house with their ankles resting against each other.

When lunch is done, Will stays outside long after Hannibal’s gone back into his workroom. In fact, he doesn’t come back in until it’s almost dinner time, and even then only because he notices the smell of simmering garlic. When he enters the house, he’s surprised to find Hannibal in the kitchen.

“I thought you’d still be working,” he says as he slips onto a barstool at the island.

“I’m done for the day. I can finish up tomorrow. I’d rather spend the rest of the evening with you.” Then Hannibal pulls a milk stout out of the fridge and deposits it in front of Will.

“Sounds good to me,” Will says before sipping his beer. “So what are we having?”

“Stew,” answers Hannibal, because he has learned not to give Will detailed accounts of their meals, knowing full well Will will simply come back with the simplified version--much to Hannibal’s irritation.

It’s delicious, just as Will expects, which is the most important thing. They chat aimlessly while they eat, jumping from topic to topic. Hannibal thinks they need a bigger stove. Will wants to expand the size of the porch in back. Hannibal thinks the dogs are getting a bit round, and implies he knows why that must be. Will stops sneaking chunks of stew under the table.

Dinner is heavy, so after the plates are cleared and washed, Will announces he’s going out for a walk. He feels weighed down by the stew and sluggish from the beer. The air outside is crisp, the temperature cool now that the sun has almost entirely fled behind the hills.  

There’s a quality to the trees, Will thinks, when experienced just after dusk. It’s eerie, though beautiful, and Will finds himself glad to have not brought Whiskey and Zin out with him for his evening trek. He creeps through the trees alone, his boots crunching leaves and twigs beneath them as he makes his way deeper in and further away from the cabin, and though he doesn’t know the area as well as Wolftrap just yet, Will doesn’t much fear getting lost.

Above him, moonlight fights its way through the redwood canopy, illuminating what it can of the path. It’s just enough for Will, who treads delicately so as not to startle the unseen wildlife around him. He has no intention of intruding. As he walks, he thinks of another moonlit night.

 _It really does look black.._.

For a moment his hands are once again covered with Dolarhyde's blood, his teeth painted with his own. He can taste it, coppery on his tongue, and his cheek burns with the pain of Dolarhyde's knife.

_This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us._

Will clears his thoughts. As if on cue, a voice speaks behind him.

" _The woods are lovely, dark, and deep_ ," Hannibal recites wryly, and Will can’t help but smile.

Hannibal comes to stand beside him, and together they listen to the nightlife in the forest. Crickets chirp. The breeze rustles leaves like wind chimes. Some distance away, an owl hoots.

Amidst the quiet conversation of the world around them, Will asks, "Are you going to bury his bones out here?" Talking about the dead man in such a way doesn’t bother him in the least, he is relieved to find.

"Of course I'm not," Hannibal replies. "I'm going to turn them into a broth. Collagen is very good for you, you know."

Will's smile twists into a slight grimace. _Use every par_ _t_ , he thinks to himself. _Otherwise it's just murder._ To Hannibal he says, “I draw the line at us using his hair to stuff our pillows.”

For a time, Hannibal says nothing. Then, “I miss Abigail.”

Will feels his heart hammer in his chest. They don’t speak of Abigail often. At least, not aloud. It’s an unspoken rule of sorts.

“I miss her, too,” he says. “Every day.”

Hannibal takes Will’s hand in his own, his thumb rubbing circles around Will’s knuckles. “Do you think children are an impossibility for us?”

Will scoffs before he can stop himself. “You aren’t serious.”

Hannibal’s thumb stills. “I suppose that’s my answer.”

“Hannibal, the last… _child_ …we had, you killed. You slit her throat right in front of me. You stuffed her ear down my throat.”

“I thought we’d moved past that,” Hannibal says lightly.

Will takes a breath. “Maybe someday we could reconsider. But not now. Things are still too….” _New. Uncertain. Impossible._

Their life together is tenuous, as much as Will wants it to be otherwise. Everyday the threat of their discovery looms in his mind. Between the fraught nature of their freedom and the fragility of their newly established relationship, Will feels the last possible thing they need is a child. Even more dogs would push them to their limits. Especially now that Hannibal has picked up his hobby again.

“Let’s just focus on _us_ for now,” he continues. “We have enough going on as it is.”

The conversation is the closest they’ve come to an argument in the five months they’ve been together. Will’s not incapable of seeing the humor in the fact that he’s married to a serial killer cannibal, and still they argue about things as conventional as whether or not the time is right to have children.

Hannibal seems to see the humor in their situation as well. He sighs, his shoulders relaxing, and chuckles. “We’re a funny pair, aren’t we, Will?”

“Freddie Lounds would have a field day if she knew what we talked about these days.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “I don’t miss that woman. I’m still disappointed you didn’t kill her.”

“Would she have even tasted that good. She was vegetarian, remember? I imagine that makes a difference.”

“In some ways,” Hannibal says, considering. “But not necessarily all of them bad.”

Will doesn’t ponder that thought too long. He figures one day he’ll find out first hand what Hannibal means, but for now it’s unimportant. He turns to look towards the cabin.

“Are you ready to head back?”

Hannibal offers a crooked elbow as his answer, and together they make their way back. Once they’ve returned, they pass the workroom on their way up the stairs. Will spares a glance towards the door and nods, a small and quick movement.

It’s only fair he pay his respects.

 

-

 

Early morning back at the house finds Will and Hannibal tucked up together on the porch swing overlooking the wilderness they call their backyard. The chicken wire fence is slight but sturdy, tall enough to keep the dogs in while allowing a view that neither Will nor Hannibal had been willing to sacrifice. On mornings like this, when they’re both up before the sunrise, it’s all worthwhile. Will sips his coffee as the sun comes up at its leisurely pace, and listens to Hannibal hum under his breath. He’s composing something new on the piano Will had surprised him with for his birthday two weeks before.

“I know you prefer the harpsichord,” Will had said, awkward and anxious about the gift. It had cost a small fortune, though not as much as it could have, and Will had been both worried he’d spent too much and nervous he’d spent too little.

But Hannibal had smiled, a tender and sincere thing, and said, “It’s lovely. Thank you, Will.”

He had spent the first week with it reacquainting himself with his earlier compositions, but the time had come to start something new once more. As such, the same handful of notes had grown familiar to Will as Hannibal worked out what came next. Will thinks perhaps it should bother him, the repetition, but it does not. They’re a beautiful handful of notes.

“I think I’ll take the dogs to the beach today,” Will says. “You should come with us.”

Hannibal stops his humming. “I’d like that,” he replies. “It looks to be an unusually good day to be outside.”

And Hannibal is right. The rising sun brings with it clear skies, streaked with a yellow and orange that belie the blue peaking at the morning’s edges. It _is_ going to be a beautiful day.   

Will turns to consider Hannibal, a sudden appreciation for how domestic they’ve become unfolding itself in his mind. Sometimes he still can’t quite believe his life looks the way it does. In this moment, as in many moments before, Will looks at Hannibal and sees their entire past laid out bare before him. Will sees Abigail and her father. He sees Bedelia and Alana. He sees Jack and Chilton and Dolarhyde and Mason. He remembers the unborn child Hannibal had spoiled, the adopted daughter he had bled out. Will sees Beverly sliced into sheets and Molly lying in the hospital, and still all of it falls away in the exact same moment, as it always has in the many exact same moments before. Will's like is one of circles and cycles, and this is yet one more he has been unable to shake.

For very little comes before the fact that Hannibal _loves_ Will, _aches_ for him. And where his love has tainted every pure thing in Will’s life, it has still baptized Will all the same. He has _become_ through Hannibal. For better or worse, Will has never felt as comfortable in his own skin as he has since Hannibal had shown up and seen fit to flay it off him alive and fry it up like cracklin.

A fine definition of love, indeed.

 

-

 

They end up at the beach two hours later, a picnic basket and blanket in tow. Whiskey and Zin take to the water immediately, splashing and barking and wagging their tails, following Will and Hannibal as they walk along the water in search of a place to set out their supplies and get comfortable. It's too cool still for either of them to get in the waves themselves, even with the sun shining brightly down on them; the breeze is a hair too strong, the bite a tooth too sharp. But Hannibal and Will are content to watch their dogs and drink mimosas, snacking on fruit and cheese and laughing every time Zin shoves his head under the water and comes back up for air, dripping.

It’s a nice morning. Will and Hannibal trade lazy kisses under the sun and feed each other figs like royalty. They talk about dogs and the house and what they want for dinner that night, and Will is almost overwhelmed by how _good_ it all is. How _content_ he feels. And then when Hannibal’s hand trails slowly down his side while his mouth stamps bruises down his neck, Will starts to feel something else.

“Hannibal,” he says quietly, stalling the man’s wandering hand, “I’m not getting randy with you on this beach. Think of all the sand.”

Hannibal smiles and leans back. “Who said we’d have to lie down in that sand in the first place? Use your imagination, William.”

To this, Will has no response besides a sheepish shake of his head.  

He lays down after that and closes his eyes against the sun. He still sees spots amidst the black, small suns of a sort on their own. Or perhaps more like small moons. With his eyes closed, it’s easier for Will to think of less pleasant things. Like the meat sitting in their fridge back home. It’s time to prepare it, Will knows.

He opens his eyes and sits up, then decides not to stop there, and stands up altogether. Hannibal doesn’t say anything, but he watches as Will walks a few yards down the beach and sits himself upon a large rock jutting out of the sand. Whiskey follows him, wet and happy, and sets her soaking snout down on Will’s thigh.

“Should have named you Salty Dog,” he tells her with a smile, scratching behind one of her ears. Whiskey accepts the attention briefly, and then flops dramatically down onto the sand. Will sighs. “Or Sandy.” He reflects that it’s a good thing they’d driven his car.

Will watches the water and thinks. He doesn’t mean to change the mood of their day trip. He doesn’t want to be the only dark cloud on such a glorious afternoon. But he watches the waves slink in and out, and his mind wanders to melancholy corners that not even the warming rays of the sun can reach. Mostly those corners serve as shrines to Abigail.

Will had let Abigail go years ago while he had been in Palermo, shortly after Hannibal had presented his broken heart at the cathedral, but being with Hannibal now has brought her up in a variety of new ways. Knowing the original plan had been for the three of them to run away together means that often Will finds himself stopping to wonder about how things would be different if Abigail was still alive. Would she have helped Hannibal with the man from the market? Would she have loved the redwoods and the ocean as Will does? Would she prefer Whiskey or Zin? With Abigail long-since dead, Will can only guess at her answers.

As his thoughts swirl like sea foam, Hannibal comes to sit beside Will on the boulder. At first he does not speak. Will moves to accommodate him on the rock.

“You seem pensive, Will," Hannibal says.

“I am often pensive,” Will counters. “Part of my charm.”

“That it is,” agrees Hannibal. “But at the moment you seem especially withdrawn."

Will looks at Hannibal sidelong. “I thought we agreed: no psychoanalysis in the bedroom.”

Hannibal raises his brows and pointedly takes in the ocean view. “We aren’t in the bedroom.”

“You know what I mean."

“I’m barely digging. You make your pondering obvious.”

“Would it help if I said explicitly, ‘I don’t feel like talking’?”

“Such an aversion you have to revisiting your therapy. I’ll never understand it.”

That earns a scoff. “It hardly seems appropriate. The last wife you had therapy with almost got you both killed.”

Hannibal considers this. “And may kill one of us yet. That said, I think we’d be remiss not to at least consider resuming some of our sessions.”

“You’re joking,” Will says, amused despite himself. "The last time _we_ had therapy almost got us _both_ killed. By each _other_.”

“Ah, but that was part of the fun of it, wasn’t it?”

Will’s silence is his own tacit agreement.

After a moment, Hannibal murmurs, “‘ _The_ last _wife_ ,’” He looks at Will. “Does this mean you consider yourself my _current_ wife?”

Will looks only a little chagrined. “Bedelia and I did once consider you Bluebeard.”

“That hardly seems fair to any of us. I forbid neither of you from any knowledge; in fact I encouraged the opposite. Not to mention, Bedelia is not dead, and if you were to consider yourself my final bride, you do yourself the greatest disservice of all. You required no one's assistance to best me, after all.”

“Of course, the nature of my so-called victory remains in question.”

Hannibal smiles. “' _Maybe that’s just fine._ ’" He moves to take Will’s hand in his own. "Is it strange to find holding your hand so novel?"

Will tightens his grip. "I suppose it's flattering."

"I held Alana's hand during our affair, of course. And Bedelia's when the situation called for it. But it has been many years since I held someone's hand simply because I wanted to."

Will's smile is wry. "Admitting to holding my hand without pretense. What a sweet-talker you are."

Though he gives Hannibal a hard time, Will still understands the sentiment Hannibal is trying to express. He shares it, too. That said, it has not been quite as long since Will had last held the hand of someone he loved as it has been for Hannibal.

"Do you ever miss Bedelia?" he asks suddenly. "I miss Molly. And Walter." _And Abigail, always Abigail._

Will surprises himself in asking the question, but if Hannibal wants to talk, then Will will oblige him, regardless the subject matter.

Hannibal inhales slowly. "I miss our conversations."

"But not the sex?"

"The sex was nice, I won't deny. But it was a distraction."

"It often is with you, if Alana was anything to go by."

Hannibal nods, conceding. "Is that why you've avoided it yourself?"

"Perhaps I'm just working up to it."

A smirk. "I could help with that."

"You often do."

"But still, the finish line remains just out of sight."

Will frowns. "Since when have you been in such a hurry?"

Hannibal clucks. "I'm teasing. I’m not with you for the sex."

"Especially since we aren't having any?"

"We're having _some_."

"Not the kind you want."

Hannibal sighs. "Will, there is no specific kind I want. I am content with what we have. I am, to clarify my original point, content with simply _this_." He looks down to where their hands are intertwined. " _This_ is enough. More than."

Will lets that sink in before he speaks once more. 

"So," he says after a moment. "You miss your conversations with Bedelia only?"

"Perhaps not only," Hannibal replies. "But mostly. Bedelia never stopped trying to help me better understand myself, and I certainly never stopped trying to help her better understand herself."

There’s an implication in Hannibal’s comment that Will isn’t overly fond of. "Is that something you think we aren't doing?"

"I think you've taken to pretending we didn't do many of the things we did."

It lands like a slap. "Is that so?"

"Denial isn't healthy." Hannibal brings Will's hand to his lips. "Will," he murmurs against the wind-chapped skin, "Are you ever going to join me again the way you did for Francis?"

"I don't--I don't know. I won't make any promises either way."

Hannibal releases Will's hand and stands from the boulder. "It's not an ultimatum, Will. There is no minimum requirement. But we have something special when we work together, and I'd hate to see that squandered."

Will stands as well, brushing sand off his backside to give himself something to do with his hands. He feels quite cold in the afternoon sunlight without Hannibal tucked beside him.

"Are you disappointed?" he asks.

"In you? Hardly. Are you disappointed in me?"

Will isn’t sure how best to answer the question. He stares at Hannibal, their eyes locked. Finally he says, "What good would that do anyone?"

Hannibal cocks his head. He says, "Do you know what I think we need?"

"I'm all ears."

"A good meal, a hot bath, and some fine wine."

Will snorts. "A panacea, certainly."

"Shall we head back home to prepare for dinner, Will?"

Will ducks his head. Raises it to look at Hannibal once more. "Well, I can't see why not."

The conversation doesn’t feel finished, not really, but Will lets it momentarily die. He whistles for Whiskey and Zin as Hannibal packs up their picnic, then wraps his arm around Hannibal's waist as they walk back up the beach and towards their car.

Though they took Will’s car, Hannibal drives them back. In the passenger seat, watching the grassy fields dotted with cows brush past in a green-brown haze, Will continues his private reflection. Disappointment is a funny thing, and it irks him that disappointment is still, despite everything, wrapped up in all his other feelings for Hannibal. It seems unfair that he should have sacrificed his life, and that Hannibal should have sacrificed his, just for Will to come out the other side feeling _disappointed_. He feels many other things too—elated, relieved, melancholic—all of which make a certain sense to him. But disappointment stands out as the uninvited interloper. Will doesn’t want to be disappointed in himself, Hannibal, or their life together.

And yet.

 

-

 

In bed that night, after their bath and wine, Will lets Hannibal massage oil into the puckered slice of skin across his belly. It’s too late for the oil to do any good, what with the scar being almost five years old, but Will sees the action for what it is: an apology of sorts. _I’m sorry it once had to come to this_. Will thinks of Abigail bleeding out beside him, and is sorry too.

 _Disappointment_.

“I miss them,” Will says. His voice is soft, soft like the hands moving across his stomach.

Hannibal’s ministrations don’t even pause. “Who? Molly and Walter?”

“Abigail. And Beverly.” Will misses those two like limbs. Their phantoms hunt his dreams, and there are still mornings he wakes and goes to the kitchen for coffee half expecting Abigail to be there at the table already.

Hannibal’s hands still. “You miss the people I took from you.”

“And sometimes I’m disappointed for it.”

“You don’t think my actions were worth it?”

Will shakes his head. “I’m not saying that.”

“What are you saying?”

Will looks at Hannibal leaning over him, shirtless and only in sleep pants, and recognizes his unique position with the man. Who else has done this? Who else has seen Hannibal for the lion he is, and yet let themselves be pinned beneath him anyway? In a way, Will likes it. He likes laying under the threat and letting it have its way with him. He likes that Hannibal wants him. Needs him. It isn’t healthy or sustainable or _good_. But it makes Will feel real, and alive, and worthy.

"I'm saying that I miss my friends," Will answers. "I miss my family. Don't you miss Mischa? Chiyoh? You've already said you miss Bedelia. And I _know_ you miss Abigail, too.”

Hannibal is silent. He caps the massage oil and sets it on the nightstand, avoiding looking at Will. It’s something Will never thought he'd see again: Hannibal vulnerable.

"It is unfortunate," Hannibal says, "that you render me so insecure."

"Unfortunate and unnecessary. There are no threats to how I feel about you. I can miss the people I care about and not care about you any less."

Hannibal wipes his hands on a washcloth and then reclines on the bed beside Will. “Being in love is a wicked thing,” he says.

“And we are wicked for it.”

Hannibal’s laugh is faint, a mere expulsion of breath. But Will knows it’s genuine.

“Must all our conversations be so grave?” Hannibal asks.

Will chuckles. “You’ll recall that I didn’t want to have this conversation at all. You were the one pushing for another therapy session, Doctor Lecter.”

“You’re saying I had it coming?”

Will shifts to his side and raises himself on one elbow. He lets a hand hover over Hannibal’s exposed navel and then drift downward. “That doesn’t have to be the only thing.”

The buck of Hannibal’s hips when Will makes contact under the waist band is minimal, but sharp. “Now who’s using sex as a distraction?”

Will’s fingers are deft. The benefit of practice. “Then how about this for a distraction,” he says as he works. “The next time you go to the cabin, take me with you.”

“Darling, you tease,” Hannibal says, playful.

“It’s not teasing. I’m being serious.”

“In that case--” Hannibal’s hand catches Will’s wrist and stills it. “I’m not going to have this conversation with your hand on my cock. If we’re going to talk about it, then we’re going to talk only.”

“I’m not sure what else you want me to say.”

“You truly feel ready for what you’re asking?"

“I feel ready to find out.”

For a moment, they do nothing but stare at one another. Will feels Hannibal’s scrutiny and lets himself be scrutinized. His offer is sincere, and he wants Hannibal to understand.

“Well, all right then,” Hannibal says. He releases his hold on Will’s wrist. “Please, continue.”

“My pleasure,” Will says, and he bends his head to give Hannibal a kiss while his hand gets back to work.

“In the spirit of being bold,” Hannibal says between catches of breath. “I have a proposition.”

Will’s eyes narrow. His hand does not still.  “Do I want to hear it?”

Hannibal’s smile is earnest, but lacks its usual predatory twist. “I think you might,” he says.

“Then let’s have it.”

Hannibal pauses a moment, holding Will’s gaze before he speaks. “I think you should have me tonight, Will. I would like you to, rather. Would you like to as well?”

Will swallows. He never knows the answer to this particular question, though Hannibal has posed it to him more than once. Usually Will says _no_ by default, too uncertain in his feelings and his body to commit to such an intimate act. Sex still feels like a trap to Will. Like an invitation to go one step further with and _to_ Hannibal. Love and violence is one and the same for them, and sex courts both whims too wildly for Will’s taste.

But on this night, after the day they have had, after all the vulnerabilities forced out on display for both them, Will feels a certainty he isn’t used to in this context. So he stares into Hannibal’s eyes and says with a confidence he’s not felt since that night with Dolarhyde,

“Yes, Hannibal. I think I would.”

 

-

 

They’ve only done this twice before, and with varying degrees of success each time. It’s not that Will doesn’t know what to do, so much as he doesn’t know what to do with _Hannibal_. He’s so used to Hannibal taking the lead, that to be the one doing so feels foreign and uncomfortable, though not _unpleasant_.

Of course, Hannibal proves each time--to Will’s uncalled for surprise--that even with Will’s cock up his ass, he’s still the one in control.

Will can’t help but laugh as Hannibal instructs from below him. He doesn’t mind it in the least, but it amuses him all the same.

“You know, Hannibal, I believe you’re what the kids these days call, _a power-bottom_.”

Hannibal’s expression is derisive. “Such a simplistic term for what we share,” he says as he bucks against Will, indicating Will should move faster. Harder.

“There is no term for what we share,” Will says, doing his best to meet Hannibal’s demands.

One of Hannibal’s hands laces into one of Will’s. “Love would be an apt term, don’t you think?”

Will feels his heart flutter.

“Did you ever think of this,” Hannibal asks a moment later. “Did you ever allow yourself the fantasy? Or were you too preoccupied with dreaming about my death?”

Will thrusts into Hannibal pointedly. “Better my cock than my knife.”

“There is a transformative value to both.”

“Hannibal,” Will huffs.

“Yes, Will?”

“Stop talking.”

“Yes, Will.”

 

-

 

In the after, Will stares at the ceiling and thinks. He is tired, wrung out entirely. But his mind, as always, refuses to quiet. Sex with Hannibal always leaves him in a strange in-between state of feeling. Exhausted but energized. Overfull but bereft. Though this foray into penetrative sex has been by all accounts a rousing success, Will still feels the contradictions. Though one feeling in particular comes through more clearly than it ever has before.

Hannibal lays beside him, quietly humming the same song from the morning. Will watches him and listens. He feels a bone-shaking certainty he’s never felt before, that he is in some kind of strange, unknowable love with Hannibal. And he feels the urge to speak it.

“I’m in love with you, Hannibal.” He resists the urge to say _I think_. It is an understood thing now. There is no more doubt for Will to hide behind.

Hannibal takes Will’s hand and drops a kiss to his palm. “Thank you for saying it.”

Will links their fingers together. He says a quiet, “You’re welcome.”

Hannibal resumes his humming. Will lets the tune lull him to sleep, and does not feel regret.

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to lazzy and JSPBJ Esquire for being very patient and generous soundingboards and cheerleaders in this ridiculously fucking long writing process the procured less than 10k's worth of story. i luv u guys. <3 <3 <3


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